All bared teeth and reclination,

In rising tides, waxed and waning.

Your head fits in my hands,

And you have always been

The begonia girl.

A sustained tone, shifts

Like a garden canal,

Water dancing as it flows like

Fingers through a head of gold waves.

The roses will die in so much sun,

And my finger pricks will heal,

And you have always been

The begonia girl.

I see leaving the city street,

The children in Flushing Meadow Park

Blinking so slow,

And putting hands together.

We sit together, the begonia girl and I,

Upon a park bench.

In the shadows of birches:

A bush of roses.